


The Scarf

by Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Guilt, Hallucinations, John is broken, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Self-Hatred, Self-Loathing, Sex without feeling, Sherlock's Scarf - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, breakdown - Freeform, self punishment, sex to cope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 17:05:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16958049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage/pseuds/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage
Summary: John is far from okay.





	The Scarf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shiverfawkes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/gifts).



> Soooo don't hate me but shiverfawkes and I were having an angst off and this was my attempt wh oops.

John shivered and let his head hit the wall with a soft **thunk** , his eyes closed beneath the soft blue scarf that was wrapped there. His forehead pressed against the cool plaster eliciting shivers, but nowhere near the violent shudders as result from the hand curling into his hair and pulling **tight**. The sting made his toes curl and he grit his teeth hard, only allowing himself to relax when familiar lips ghosted over his neck and down onto his clothed shoulder. 

The memory of his injury wasn't as fresh as it had been, but now there was something new that made him tremble. Something cold, something fierce, a pain that ripped through his core and left him empty to the outside world. 

The pop of the lube cap made him shake his head, pushing his hips back impatiently. He knew he'd not go without being prepared for what was to come, no matter how much he begged. The pain made him feel something where he was now numb, every intake of breath filling frozen lungs and giving the illusion that he was alive. 

John Watson had died six months ago. 

The sex wasn't bad, it never really was. Warm hands traced every edge of skin in a learned pattern, something that brought a light tingle and helped him feel that little more. The scarf too served a similar purpose, heightening his senses and dulling his sight so that just maybe he can go through with this without showing how broken he is. He would hold himself together with the scarf like the fabled girl with the ribbon around her neck; removal of it would mean death in one way or another. 

"Hurry up," he hissed, not having the decency to blush as he met each thrust. There was a sense of urgency there, a silent plea for the end game. "Please, oh god, _Sherlock_ -" that name was his mantra, whispered, moaned, shouted again and again and it burned on his tongue; it left his throat about to close in on itself and his heart as though it were about to give out. 

Rudely fingers were crushed into his mouth and he let out a grunt in response, lowering a hand to his cock to stroke at it in time with the rough treatment. He didn't care how the name he cried wasn't the one who held him, he didn't care about the pain it caused them both to hear it again and again as though it were a prayer. It felt like more of a curse. 

 _John_... 

He heard that damn voice and faltered, teeth gritting down onto fingers and drawing a hissed curse from the man behind him. There was no apology made, just a soft whisper once his mouth was promptly freed. "Not here... not now."

There was a sigh and John couldn't tell if it were real or not, the doctor simply hunching his shoulders and stroking faster until his climax painted the wall and he felt that rush of endorphins he craved. It was always over much too fast. But, the arms that enveloped him upon completion were always sturdy and held him up when he felt weak. Kept him together. But they were too long, too thin in areas, the fingers now clasping around the makeshift blindfold being trapped in turn and forced to stop from exposing him to the outside world. Exposing how shattered he was.

"Just a little longer," the blond whispered, tears rolling down his cheek as he took in the familiar scent. "Please."

There was no movement for a while, patient fingers still holding the blue material until John was ready. Would he ever be ready to let go? 

Sometimes that choice had to be made for him.

The warmth and familiar scent fell away with the scarf and the energy John had one had fell with it. Instead of being in the warmth of his flat with the man he'd grown to love, he stood in a cold office with his and his partner's climax dripping to the floor. 

"I'm sorry," came the voice from behind him, clear cut accent piercing through the thick air. The warmth pulled away as Mycroft stood back, his eyes empty while John pulled up his jeans and he adjusted his fly smoothly. There was nothing to be said besides it, was there? There was no need to point out the damp patch forming on the blue denim, the dampness of the scarf where tears had stained it. There was no need to point out pain when it was so blatant.

John didn't answer, eyes shifting to the corner of the room where he saw those eyes staring back at him. Those deep eyes of the man he loved, sorrowful in the observation of just how broken he'd become. Except that wasn't Sherlock standing there, just a hallucination induced by a lack of sleep and proper diet. It wasn't his flatmate who he'd killed for, cried for, dreamed about in the middle of the night. It wasn't the man who'd given him life when his soul had been sucked from his core, who'd breathed into him spirit once more to keep going with life. 

What did he have now? 

 _John_...

He heard that damn voice again and punched the wall, ignoring the way his knuckles crunched under the force. It almost too much. He grabbed the scarf now dangling loose over his neck and took in a deep breath, crumbling on the count of three and letting out the sob that had been heaving on his chest. Sherlock Holmes was dead. His best friend, love, had died before his very eyes and he hadn't done anything. It wasn't long before his legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor, his agonised screams and sobs bouncing off of the walls while the ice man merely watched on in guilty silence.

They had come to this arrangement about three months ago, when John was spending days on end at the pub or walking the streets of London looking a mess. Mycroft had picked him up one evening and taken him out of the rain. It might have been the whiskey that night, it might have been a mutual need for comfort, but they had latched on to each other that night and had every week since.

The click of the phone was the only other sound, Mycroft having moved to his desk. "Anthea, please ensure Doctor Watson's car is outside." His voice was cold, detached from the sight of the man on the floor. "Thank you."

They parted ways that evening with John still unable to think straight, allowing himself to be guided though just making a halfhearted demand to be dropped off at the pub. He couldn't face 221b, or Mrs Hudson, or anyone right now. He just wanted to forget those mournful eyes, forget the sight of his love bleeding out on the cold street floor. The sound of his own scream as he saw Sherlock jump. He didn't give a fuck who saw his tears, who saw the wet patch between his thighs if anyone even realised he was there at all. Without Sherlock, he was just another face in the crowd, just another man who would disappear with time and have no one to remember him by.

Mycroft merely watched him go, giving himself a good half hour after he'd cleaned up the mess behind before he sat at his desk, held his head in his hand, and wept. 


End file.
